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Happen.
    But then that image itself – snake and pinned mouse – screwed itself into her thoughts, and the panic notched up a level more.
    Shit. I’m going to lose it. I’m going to fucking lose it.
    The end of the tunnel was now about eight feet away, and she was possessedby an urge to sprint out. But she couldn’t. There wasn’t enough room for her to move any more quickly than at a crawl. Anyway, Sachs knew that trying to hurry would be a disaster. For one thing, she could miss clues. And going more quickly would ratchet up the dread, which would explode within her like a chain reaction.
    Also: Moving faster out of the tunnel, even if she could, would be a defeat.

    Her personal mantra – which she’d also learned from her father – was: When you move they can’t getcha.
    But sometimes, like now, they’ll getcha when you
do
move.
    So, stop, she commanded.
    And she did. Came to a complete halt. And felt the perverse arms of the tunnel embrace her ever more tightly.
    Panic, cresting like waves. Panic, stabbing like that frosty knife.
    Don’t move. Be with it, shetold herself. Face it. Confront it. She believed Rhyme was speaking to her, the whisper of his faraway voice perplexed or concerned or impatient. All of those, probably. Down went the headset volume to silence.
    Breathe.
    She did. In, out. Eyes open, looking at the disk of light ahead of her, relief a mile ahead. No, not that.
Evidence
. Look for evidence. That’s your job. Her gaze took in themetal shell, inches away.
    And the sting of panic began to detach. Not vanish completely. But it grew loose.
    Okay. She continued through the tunnel, rolling for trace, collecting scraps, intentionally moving more slowly than before.
    And finally her head emerged. Shoulders.
    Birthing, she laughed to herself, a pallid sound, and blinked sweat from her eyes.
    Then she rolled quickly into the largertunnel; it seemed like a concert hall by comparison. Rising to a crouch, drawing her Glock.
    But no intruders were aiming weapons her way, not in the immediate area at least. The spotlights over the body were blinding and there might have been a threat in the blackness beyond but she immediately shone her Maglite in that direction. No threat.
    Rising, Sachs tugged the gear bag out of the tunnel.She gazed around and saw that the diagram from Rhyme’s database was accurate. This tunnel resembled a mine shaft, about twenty feet square. It disappeared west into the darkness. She knew it had been used, a century ago, for transporting wheeled carts of goods to and from factories and warehouses. Now the damp, moldy passageway served only as New York City infrastructure. There were large ironpipes overhead and smaller aluminum and PVC ones, perhaps for electrical cables, running through old battered junction boxes. Newer conduits sprouted from bright-yellow boxes secured with thick padlocks. These were embossed with the letters
IFON
. She didn’t know what that meant. The iron pipes were stamped
NYC DS
and
NYC DEP
– Sanitation and Environmental Protection, the agencies that handledthe city’s sewage and water supply, respectively.
    She realized it was utterly quiet and turned up the volume of the radio.
    ‘—the hell is going on?’
    ‘Sorry, Rhyme,’ Sachs said. ‘Had to concentrate.’
    He was silent for a moment. Then he seemed to get it – her wrestling with the breadbasket. ‘All right. Well. The scene secure, as far as you can tell?’
    ‘The immediate scene.’ The tunnel was brickedoff to the east but she glanced again at the darkness to the west.
    ‘Turn one of the spotlights that way. It’ll blind anybody trying to target you. And you’ll be able to see him coming before he sees you.’
    The first responders had brought two halogen lamps on tripods, connected to large batteries. She turned one in the direction Rhyme had suggested and squinted as she examined the receding tunnel.

    No indication of threats.
    Sachs hoped there’d be no firefight. The big